A Very Vanuatu Census

Haos Gel Numba Two

About two weeks after I got back from New Zealand, I was sitting at the computer in the family room playing my very addictive computer game, Civilisation:  Call to Power.  Unlike today, when I have Pocahontas II playing in the background because Haos Gel Numba One and Two, Marie and Anais, are watching it, that day was a quiet one.  I heard a bus door slide open and then slide shut outside (remember Vanuatu buses are vans).  I wondered who that would be since Marie and Anais were here and very few other people arrive here in a bus.

Then a guy came walking down the path to the front door.  He was wearing a name badge and carrying what looked to be a questionnaire of some sort.  I assumed he was from the Census.

Vanuatu has been doing a Census.  Our house was marked in July or August with a little green post-it note over the front door.  When they came to put that up they asked how many people lived here and then we were told the numbers on the paper would identify our house for the Census being done in November.  This is needed because outside town the streets are not named and even in town the houses are not numbered.  At the time, I thought, “There is no way that little post-it note is going to stay there for four months.”

Race Day in Paradise

Fashions Arriving at Vila Race Day 2000

Melbourne has its Melbourne Cup.  Auckland has its Auckland Cup.  Louisville has its Kentucky Derby and not to be out done, Port Vila has its Kiwanis Fosters Cup.  Once a year for the past 13 years, a paddock surrounded by road, sea and jungle becomes the centre of Vanuatu’s racing scene.  Never mind that Vanuatu’s “racing scene” is a one-day wonder, thousands, including several international horsy people, turnout in force to watch the horses race and the people parade.  This year we were lucky enough to even have a full-blooded thoroughbred running in the race.

This event is the talk of the town for months before and after the race.  And, the week leading up to the race is full of events, including a swanky Race Ball and a Calcutta Night.  All proceeds from all events go to support various community projects. 

It was the morning after and Rob and I and some friends were sitting around a table in the fabulous Tamanu Beach Club dining pavilion.  We watched as one deep blue wave after another rose up out of the sea then flashed into a bright aqua blue just before erupting into white as it hit the dark table reef.  As the resulting foamy white and black mass of water surged over the reef toward the sandy white beach in front of us we reminisced about the event of the day before.

A Tale of Vanuatu Celebration

Turn of the Century Vanuatu Independence Day

The first volley was fired.  I flinched a bit and then the shots rang out again for a second and then a third volley.  I was still standing.  I checked for holes and then for blood.  No, none, thank god they remembered to load the blanks again this year.  We had survived our second Vanuatu Independence Day flag raising ceremony.

Paula Does Vila: A Bad Weather Tale

Rainbow over Port Vila Before Paula

It had been hot and steamy for weeks.  Everyone was saying that a cyclone was near.  There was nothing on the Fiji Met Services website that indicated that.  Still I heard over and over again that one was surely coming.  In fact, I had been hearing such predictions since December and frankly, I was starting to think that I should get in on the action. The average for Vanuatu is 2 and a half cyclones a year.  We had had only one very small one last year, none this year.  So, the odds were in favour of the doomsayers being right.    As usual, though, I analysed just a bit too long and missed my opportunity to be Vanuatu’s very own Nostradamus. 

In the early hours of Tuesday 27 February 2001, Cyclone Paula was born in the waters between the Solomon Islands and Vanuatu.  It had appeared as a tropical depression a day or so before, but having watched several of these form over the past few weeks only to see them fizzle or head back toward Australia, I had given up on monitoring them.  Of course, that should have been my first clue that this one would be different.

You see, I’ve never been in a cyclone before and while it is probably a bit bizarre, I didn’t want to leave Vanuatu without experiencing at least one.  Ok, bizarre is probably not the right word.  The word most long timers here were using for me was crazy, but then they had been through a few before and probably forgotten the excitement of their first.

I don’t know what it is, maybe it is the power of Mother Nature, but whatever it is, cyclones, hurricanes, earthquakes and the like interest me.  Every time the rumble of an earthquake starts up – here you always here the rumble through the coral beneath first before the movement starts – the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  I watch for the first movement and wonder if this is it – the big one!  So, far I have been disappointed on the earthquake front and that is probably very lucky considering we live in a house with a metal roof and concrete block walls.  It probably would not be a good look to have all that tumbling down around me or on top of me for that matter.

Still I figured a small cyclone would not be too bad.  I had had two near cyclone experiences – one fizzer last year and one in 1972.  The ’72 experience was truly a disaster.  That year, the remnants of Hurricane Agnes parked itself over New York State sending so much water down the Susquehanna River that it had its worst flooding in over 100 years.  I remember that year vividly.  I was going around openly hoping it would flood.  Dumb?  Yes, we only lived three blocks from the dikes that were suppose to keep the river in check, but hey, I was only 10. 

As it turned out, the dikes were not high enough that year and sure enough our house got flooded.  Only about a foot of the roof of our split level house managed to stay out of the water, and everything we moved from the lower level of the house to the upper got soaked and covered in layers of mud.

You would have thought I had learned my lesson, but not this puppy.  When I heard Paula had formed and was suppose to move due south for a while before moving east I was a little disappointed since that meant it was probably going to miss us.  Being a little older now, I was smart enough not to go around saying that, though.

Preparing for Cyclone Paula

Just in case, we started low level preparations.  You never know what a cyclone will do.  They can change direction at the drop of a hat.  We got the gardener, Charlie, to clean out the gutters and move the plants on the deck into the area that gets closed off with shutters.  I went into town and got some supplies, candles, batteries, cat food and human food too.  Charlie also got out the wooden shutters from under the deck and put them out near the windows that they were to cover should Paula come our way. 

Our artist friends, Michou and Aloi had invited us to lunch to meet some people visiting from New Zealand.  So, about noon I headed off to their place.  There were some dark clouds off in the distance, but otherwise the sun was shinning and the temperature was once again on the way up.

On the way over, I listened to the Radio Vanuatu news and they said Paula was currently 200 kms north west of Santo and was heading south.  It was expected to pass over Southern Vanuatu in 48 hours.  I wondered what was considered “Southern Vanuatu.”   I mean, Efate is kind of in the middle, but maybe it could be considered “Southern”. 

We had a lovely lunch of Tahiti fish salad, cooked bananas, taro and yams.  It rained briefly, but by the time we left the sun was out again.

I continued checking the 6 hourly cyclone warning issued by the Fiji Met Service throughout the day.  When we went to bed, Paula was still headed south and expected to pass over Aneityum in 48 hours.  Aneityum is a few hundred kilometres south of Efate.  So, I now knew what they meant by “Southern Vanuatu.”

The alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning.  I listened for the sound of rain on the roof, but there was none.  It was darker than normal.  There was no burst of sun through the supposed blackout curtains.  So, I figured it was cloudy, but with no rain, my walking partner, Shari, would be outside waiting for me in a few minutes.  So, I got up, got dressed and headed out the door.  I met Shari at the gate and that was when it started to drizzle.

Since we were already up at that ungodly hour, we decided to do the walk anyway.  I went back inside got two umbrellas and we headed off.  I took a few steps, and popped the umbrella up. The little metal gizmo on the top that keeps it all together, popped off and rocketed into the air collapsing my umbrella.  This was an omen – weather protection gear not in working order, beware – but I didn’t see it at the time.  I just got another umbrella and off we went.

The clouds were quite thick and to the north the sky over the mountains was almost black.  The wind had also picked up and you could tell that Paula was getting closer.  After the walk, I turned the computer on and checked out the latest bulletin to see what Paula had been up to over night.

The predictions of southerly movement had been wrong.  Over night Paula had veered east and was now just off the coast of Santo and expected to move south easterly.  Aneityum was saved, but now Efate was potentially directly in its path.  My excitement levels rose – secretly, of course.  I told Rob this and Mr Calm-Cool-and-Collected, brushed it off and said he was sure it would miss us.

By about 9:30, the winds were getting stronger.  The trees and other plants in the garden had started a regular rustling.  The avocados on the tree over the kitchen were banging away on the roof and the now sustained winds were keeping all the fronds on the palm trees down the road blowing in a westerly direction.  It was starting to look like a cyclone should.

I had just been to the market and there had been a lot more people there than there had been yesterday.  Everyone was stocking up now, not just the uninitiated like me.  I was amazed to find, however, that there were one or two people who still had no idea that Paula was on the way.  I told at least two people about it as I picked up more candles and dinner.  I guess they don’t listen to the radio.

When I got back home I got word from Rob that there had just been a flash alert on the news.  Paula had picked up speed and was going to pass over Vanuatu just to the north of Efate in the late afternoon or early evening.

Garage Door Cyclone Shutters

Charlie was in the process of putting up the wooden shutters and I started putting down some of the roll down shutters.  We have three types of shutters the old fashioned wooden ones on some of the smaller windows and the front door, roll down aluminium ones over most of the windows and around the deck and two big garage doors that get pulled down over the big windows in the dinning room/ lounge area.

There was no real rain yet and the winds were not that strong, so we took advantage of the weather to get most of the shutters up or down as the case might be.  There was no way I wanted to get caught like we did last year when the munchkin cyclone, Iris, passed to the north of Efate.

On the night Iris passed by, we got a phone call at 1 am from the neighbour who called to say Charlie had come to put up their shutters because an alert had been given.   We thought, “Well, how nice of him.”  Rob said, yes and Rob and I got up and went out into the pouring rain to help Charlie put them up.  There were more wooden ones and fewer roll down ones last year and wet, the wooden ones are even heavier.  Rob and I did most of the work, lugging the wooden ones out and slipping them into place where Charlie told us.  He has worked here for years and knew the drill.  We were absolutely soaked by the time we came back in, but glad to know there would be no trees smashing through the windows.

The next morning when Rob went into the office, he discovered Charlie actually gets paid to come out and do the shutters when the alert is given.  So, basically we’d been had.  I considered suggesting that maybe Rob and I should get the cheque, but decided that might look a bit churlish. 

So, suffice it to say, that I had no guilt watching Charlie put the wooden shutters up all by himself, while I took the easy job of winding down the other ones.

The schools closed at lunch, so I took Marie, the housekeeper, over to the school to pick up her niece, Anais.  Anais is 6 so as far as her memory goes this was going to be her first cyclone too.  She was very talkative on the way home.  This is not normal.  Usually, you can’t even get a “Good morning” out of her.  Her biggest concern was that all the flowers were coming off the trees and bushes and she didn’t want any thunder.  She doesn’t like thunder.

By the time we got back, the house was basically closed up.  I had heard it gets quite hot inside during a cyclone, so I figured I would alleviate that little problem by turning the air-conditioning on in a few strategic rooms – the bedroom and living room.  At least, we would be cool.

Cyclone Paula announces she's on the way

Most businesses were closing down, but Rob called to say he would be staying at the office a little longer – surprise, surprise.   About two o’clock, Charlie had finished up at the neighbours and I took him home.  The wind was really blowing at this point.  Trees were already coming down.  As we came to the bend near Malopoa College, I had to manoeuvre around fallen banana and papaya trees.  The road up to Charlie’s place was a raging river by this time, but we made it up and then, I headed home.

As I rounded the corner at Malapoa College I came upon some teenagers playing in the puddle that had formed in the road.  They were dancing around and splashing water all over.  It was all quite festive, really.

Our Outdoor Fruit Bowl

Rob finally got home about three.  The wind and rain were really picking up by this point.  The banging of the avocados had stopped and when I went out back to save a few orchids, I found out why.  The avocados, the papaya and the neighbour’s grapefruit had turned the side walkway into a huge bowl of fruit salad.  Smashed fruit was everywhere and this was only the beginning of the cyclone.  The radio news had just said it wasn’t due to hit until eight that night!

I was now watching two websites to see where Paula was headed – the Fiji site and the French Meteo site in Noumea.  Fiji said it would pass to the east and Meteo to the west.  The Vanuatu Met Service was saying over the radio that it would pass to the north.  All they really agreed on was that it was going to be close.

We had dinner and watched Part III of the BBC documentary Elizabeth.  The wind was roaring away by this time, but the rain wasn’t pounding yet.  With the way the wind was whipping up, I guessed the rain might have been getting blown sideways and therefore over the roof.  Paula had slowed again and now the centre, where the winds are worst, was not due in Vila until sometime between midnight and 3 am.  Paula was getting stronger with each passing hour as well.  The cyclone warnings kept saying as it neared an island that the interaction with the coral island ‘x’ would cause it to weaken.  The next report following the interaction with said island would say it had had no effect, but the next island might cause it to weaken.  We were about out of islands between us and the storm.  We were in for a long night.  Still with the shutters in place and the air-conditioners running, we were snug as a bug in a rug.

By quarter to nine the wind and rain, yes you could hear the rain now, on the roof was so loud it sounded like a very long freight train was passing over it.  I checked the latest bulletins on the Fiji and Noumea websites.  They finally agreed on a path.  Cyclone Paula (video) was coming right through the middle of Efate, although the Vanuatu Met Service was still projecting it would pass to the North.

I went out to the deck to check the shutters.  When the shutters are down around one section of the deck, it forms a little room that plants, deck furniture and other outdoor things can be put in to protect them from the wind.  The shutters were there for Iris, but since that wasn’t a real cyclone, I decided to check them.  I always thought they were a bit flimsy and when I got out there I learned sadly that I had been right.  The one at the far end of the deck had already blown out of its track at the bottom.  I went and got Rob and we manoeuvred it back into the track.  My excitement was turning into unease.

After we came back inside, I stood there at the door watching the shutters shake with each blast of wind.  The glass doors behind the garage door shutters were also bending with the gusts.  Mr Calm-Cool-and-Collected told me to come away from the window. “There is nothing we can do about it, now,” he said.

I went back to the video, but a few minutes later the power went out.  With no distractions, the roar of the storm got louder just as the room went dark.  Now there was nothing to do, but light some candles and twiddle our thumbs.  I took a torch and went out to the kitchen.

As I passed the doors to the deck, I noticed a little black patch where there should have been cream coloured shutter.  I flashed the light out and not really to my surprise saw that the middle shutter had popped out of the middle of its track.  As the wind whipped around on the other side, the gap widened and closed.  It was not going to be long before the whole thing went and once one went the other three were sure to go.

I told Rob and he went out to investigate.  Next thing I knew, he was standing there trying to push the gap closed and hold it closed.  When the gusts hit he moved back with the shutter so you could see it was a fruitless attempt.  I told him to get his butt inside and he said he was concerned about the house.

Shutters give in to Paula

I thought for a second, because I needed to get the words just right and then I said, “There is nothing we can do about it, now” and added “Now, get your ass in here!”  The storm was not at its peak yet and I had visions of a big gust of wind coming that would throw the shutter and Rob right through the windows behind.

Within 10 minutes, the middle shutter had blown out.  It had pulled completely out of its box and track and was lying on the plants and deck furniture.  The other three shutters were shredded with the pieces still connected flapping away.  We had a great view of the harbour now though.  You could really see what was happening out there.  Rob, however, was very disturbed that the town still had its lights on.  Each time the rain blotted out the lights on the other side of the harbour Rob would say, “Yes, they’ve lost them.”  But then, the rain tapered off and the lights were still there.

Anyway, once the shutters were gone, Rob taped the windows and proceeded to open all the internal doors to equalise the pressure.  This kind of foiled my plan to keep a few rooms cool during the whole thing.  It was dark, exceedingly hot and very noisy.

The concern now was, that this was the beginning of the wind not the height.  The centre wasn’t due until midnight or so.  The last tacking before we lost power had it coming right for us.  It was intensifying with winds up to 180 kms per hour and we had no shutters at on a big chunk of the house.  This wasn’t fun anymore.  If a window broke from the wind or something hitting it, what just happened to the shutters would happen inside.

Rob was getting more concerned about damage to the house.  I, however, took the view that since we don’t own it and Rob’s employers obviously took the cheap option on the shutters – screw the house!  For all I cared, the house could fly off to the wonderful Land of Oz as long as he and I and our things were not in it at the time.

Having had the 1972 flood experience I knew there were only certain things that can’t be replaced.  So, I set about collecting photos, financial documents, and computer disks and put them in a bag.  I also packaged up the computer.  The plan was move it into the truck in the garage, which was separate from the house.

Leave Splatter and Trusted Cyclone Shutter

In the end the move was not necessary.   Despite all the whistles and bells of the Fiji and Noumea met services, the Vanuatu Met Service got it right.  Paula passed to the north and then headed on to the southeast, so we never saw the most intense part of the storm.  By about 1:30 am the wind had clearly shifted which meant the centre had passed.  The wind was whistling down the path on the other side of the house and hitting the front door, which was protected by the good old-fashioned wooden shutters.

Rob headed off to bed and I followed a bit later.  I woke up about 4 am and I am pretty sure it was the silence that woke me.  I lay there until it got light and went out to see what was left.  The wind had died right down and there was not much rain either.  The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the over powering scent of shredded plant life.  It was like someone had just trimmed all the hedges in Vila at the same time.

The way shutters shouldn't be hung

I crawled out through what was left of the shutters on to the deck and took a look into the harbour.  There was a yacht washed a shore down below us and another sunk across the harbour over at the Rossi.  There were a lot fewer leaves on the trees and all the walls of the house were plastered with small pieces of green.

When you looked down into the bush you could actually see the path of the wind.   Tree branches were snapped off in a certain direction.  The trees that had fallen were lying in a certain direction.  Bushes and trees left standing were leaning in the same direction.  There wasn’t a banana tree left standing and most of the papaya trees had snapped. 

Rob got ready for work and I drove into town with him.  There was a lot of damage to food crops, but not too much to buildings.  A total of six yachts were beached or sunk and one at the market had only the top of its mast above water.  The yacht below us is still there 3 weeks later.  There doesn’t seem to be an easy way to get it over the reef and back to deep water.

The green debris has turned to brown and there are many views around town that weren’t there before and won’t be again once the bush comes back.  We were lucky this time.  I’ve experienced my cyclone and I don’t think I need to do it again.

Malapoa Before Paula

Malapoa After Paula

A Vanuatu Christmas

 “Look I found one, but it’s not going to be easy to get.”

“Why not, what’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s in the garden of a house up by the hospital.  It is too public and it will be hard to get away with it.”

“Well, I’ve got a balaclava and some black fatigues.  Maybe we could do it one night this weekend, but then, Shari -- the chainsaw might give us away anyway don’t you think?”

“Yeah, you’re right, but a handsaw will take forever.”

I sat there listening to this conversation between Sonja, level-headed organiser extraordinaire and mother of two and the very enthusiastic yet sometimes less practical Shari, our friend and hairdresser, thinking, “it’s just too damn difficult to get a Christmas tree in Vanuatu”. 

Centrepoint's Snowy Santa Windows

Frankly, the whole “traditional” white Christmas thing just doesn’t work in Vanuatu despite numerous attempts to make it work.  When it is 33 degrees Celsius in the shade of a palm tree and afternoon tropical thunderstorms drive you from the pool on a daily basis Santa Claus in his big furry coat travelling in a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer seems just a little out of place.

Mobil Petrol Station's Snowy Santa Windows

Yet, as you drive down the dusty main road of Vila in late November you start to see the jolly little man in red popping up all over the place.  Centrepoint Supermarche has him painted on the windows, as does the Mobil station across the street.  They obviously used the same painter.  Bon Marche has him hanging over every aisle.  With no major department store or mall, there is nowhere to sit on Santa’s knee, but there is a Santa Parade.  Well, sort of, last year it consisted of some poor sod dressed up in a Santa suit on the back of a truck.  The truck went down the main street and Santa threw candy to pedestrians.  The dash to scoop up the tasty morsels nearly caused a riot. 

You had to feel sorry for Santa though.  It was sunny and about 35 degrees and the patches of darker red on the suit showed the poor man was slowing sweating to death.

It is not just Santa either.  The attempts to re-create snow are sometimes even more out of place.  You wouldn’t believe the number of shops that have “snow” sprayed on their windows, then again I guess it might be condensation… 

No, I’m pretty sure it’s that snow in a spray can stuff.  The snow obsession is not just for shopkeepers either.  Friends of ours told us that a few years ago, a guy decided to have a white Christmas and covered his house and garden in some kind of white confetti stuff.  It didn’t look much like snow apparently, but every one came to have a look anyway and a frolic in the winter wonderland. 

Centrepoints Christmas Cheer

I must say, I understand the desire to have a white Christmas. Having been raised in the colder regions of the Northern Hemisphere, the plummeting temperatures, the long dark nights, the hint of snow in the air are all signs that Christmas is just around the corner.  I mean, even in Arizona and California darkness falling at 5 in the afternoon gave you some hint.  I guess I should be grateful for the little reminders, because, if it weren’t for all this stuff popping up around town, I would probably completely forget Christmas was coming.

The Southern Hemisphere has none of the signs.  Christmas falls in the middle of summer, it’s hot even in New Zealand.  The days are long and the nights short.  Digging the car out of a snow bank to go to grandma house for Christmas dinner is replaced by packing the car for a barbecue at the beach.  It just doesn’t work for me, I’m afraid.

Last Christmas, our first in Vanuatu, we decided to go for a less traditional type affair.  It really worked and we proved it could be done a tropical way.  We had 13 people including 3 children to Christmas lunch.  The event had originally been planned for the beach, but our usual beach spot was not available and our house had a pool for the kids – big and small.  So, it was at our place.  There wasn’t an evergreen in sight and not one flashing fairy light either.

Everyone brought something so it was not a big cooking thing and fortunately the farce of a hot roast dinner in the middle of summer as many families in New Zealand suffer through was foregone.  Everyone agreed to make it tropical and make it simple.  Many of the dishes, like the mussels, were served cold.  Except for the napkin rings it wasn’t beginning to look a lot like Christmas at all, at least not at our place.  Which was fine with me.  I don’t mean to sound a grinch and I was looking forward to the gathering, but with the sun shinning, the temperature pushing the top of the thermometer and the palm trees swaying in the light breeze it was a nice day, but not Christmas.

Being a Southern Hemisphere boy, however, Rob sees all the current signs of Christmas as normal, and he really got into the spirit.  He went for special, which means complicated, of course.  He made Christmasy napkin rings – two versions one toilet rolls covered in Christmas wrapping which he decided against and other using gilded cherubs which he went with in the end.  He designed a beautiful centrepiece for the table complete with gold and silver spray-painted pineapples and ferns placed around a gold coloured pedestaled orb.  He said the orb was to signify “the coming the new millennium”.  Yeah, I know… 

The table was set beautifully.  He made chocolate pecan fudge.  The fudge, together with nougat, was divided up, wrapped in clear cellophane with a holly print and tied off with red ribbon (in a small bow of course).  He found someone who imported salmon for the dish he was creating, etc., etc.  Let’s just leave it at he loves Christmas.

Christmas morning started with a champagne breakfast at our friends Tony and Julia’s place.  They had a tree and air-conditioning, so with the drapes pulled I could almost imagine Christmas morning. 

After ‘breakfast’, it was back to our place.  After more champagne, we sat down to the first course.  First entrée was prawns, scallops and calamari done in a cognac cream sauce.  This was served with cooked bananas.  Next was marinated green-lipped mussels in a chilli sauce.  The THIRD entrée was crayfish followed by a lime sorbet.  Then we took a break before the mains.  Most of us went outside on the deck.  Some swam, some chatted and everybody drank more champagne.

Rob and Julia stayed in the kitchen and created the mains.  A little while later we returned to the table still full from the entrées.  The mains were salmon stuffed with Chinese cabbage, roasted peppers and pinenuts by Rob and baked ham contributed by Julia and Tony (ok so we didn’t give up all the traditional fare).  And if all that was not enough we had Pavlova and cake for dessert.  The meal itself began at 2:30 and finished up at about 6.  I don’t think I’ve ever eaten and drank so much.

The next morning we got up to another brilliant day.  We had been invited to spend Boxing Day, Family Day here, at a bach (cabin) up the coast at Havana Harbour.  We arrived just before lunch was served still full from the day before.  We were introduced, had the obligatory glass of champagne, a look around, some conversation and then got into lunch, again.

Lunch consisted of a huge plate of whole crayfish, a pork roast, sweet potatoes, bananas roasted in their skins on the grill, French bread and lots of French red wine, nicely chilled as always in Vanauatu.

Needless to say, it was a fabulous two day event that most found to be Christmas in a Southern Hemisphere kind of way.  While it didn’t seem to be all that Christmasy to me, I liked the fact that it suited the environment - hot pudding, heavy food and Santa squeezing down the chimney were no where to be seen.  So, why the obsession with ‘traditional’ Northern Christmas stuff?  You would think that people down this part of the world would have adapted symbols to better fit the environment.

Vanuatu's Christmas Tree

I mean, take the tradition of decorating everything with red and green.  It is a bizarre tradition that has been transplanted to Vanuatu and it is out of place.  Against the bleak winter background of lifeless trees, dead grass, patches of white snow and dreary grey skies, red and green livens the scenery up a bit.  But, who needs green and red when you’ve got green jungle bursting with colourful summer flowers.

We’ve got “Christmas trees” all around us.  The flame trees with their fiery orange flowers are in full bloom at the moment punctuating the green hills around town.  Then there are the trees with lemon yellow flowers that hang like grapes and next door to us there is a big tree bursting with hot pink flowers.  Gardens are flush with pink, red and rich purple bougainvillaea.  Hedges of red hibiscus line driveways and roads.  Who needs fake green and red Christmas decorations when all this is about?

Neighbour's Hot Pink Tree

I have to say that one “traditional” decoration that does work very well is the fairy lights.  I’m not talking about the red, green, blue and yellow ones that light up the fronts of businesses in town and I’m definitely not talking about the ones that drive you mad flashing all night.  However, the plain white ones that currently bathe Port Vila in a cool white glow really work.

UNLECO, the local electricity and water company that thrives on monopoly pricing and would make a fabulous poster child for antitrust law campaigns, does put some money into the community at Christmas and works wonders with white fairy lights. 

Christmas Lights on Lini Hwy

They have taken strings of lights and made sheets of white light that hang over the main road through town.  Every 50 meters or so another one of these sheets of light spans from building to building across the road.  The seafront trees and trees around the market are also covered in white fairy lights.  It is absolutely beautifully done.

Going through town on a dark summers night the white light really makes the ground glow, you almost feel as though you are driving through a winter wonderland.  That is, of course, until you open the door of your air-conditioned car and step into a wall of heat and humidity.

Fairy Lights on Vila's Seafront Palms

Anyway, the trees that I find most amazing covered in lights are the palm trees.  UNELCO has wrapped the trunks of those on the seafront and outlined each palm frond with fairy lights.

Anyway, as I turned around to pick up my yellow plastic Christmas crown that I got from my Christmas cracker, my mind wandered back to the topic at hand and I saw the solution to the Christmas tree dilemma.

Sonja, Shari, Rob and others were in deep discussion over what they were going to do about a tree for their Christmas lip-sync competition fundraiser.  Shari had decided to go ask the people who own the house near the hospital if we could chop the top off it.  Rob was on to putting a gold star on top of a Christmas tree created from overlapping sheets of white cloth hung on the wall.  It all sounded way too difficult, not to mention traditional, but the trees on the seafront provided a solution - or at least I thought so.

Rob's Brilliant Idea

I suggested getting a big potted palm tree and covering it in lights.  The Christmas traditionalists looked over the fake little green Christmas tree in the centre of the table and gave me that what-a-silly-idea look.  Rob ignored the idea as he does and continued sizing up the wall for his white sheet Christmas tree.

As the week wore on and the ideas all got too complex, though, it was decided that a fairy lights on a palm tree was a brilliant idea.  A small group went down to the local nursery and picked out three nice sized palms that were put up in the Rossi Restaurant for the big night.

As usual, everyone is now saying what a wonderful idea Rob had to use the palm trees.  Story of my life! Anyway, the palms looked tremendous fitted out in gold and red and it was nice to see something a little more Vanuatu developing.  I’m not getting my hopes about any major progress to a real Vanuatu Christmas though.

Because, the day after, as I was cutting the fishing line we had used to hang the red balls, gold stars and red icicles (ok, so sue me, some one did get the snow thing in) while preparing the palms for transport to a new life at the golf club, I noticed a 13 foot Norfolk Pine walking into the Rossi.  It was placed in a pot and sat there waiting to replace our Christmas palms.  I guess the traditionalists win again.

Copyright 2001

[Note: This tale was first told in December 2000 and a few days later I got an email from a former nurse at the hospital who was then in living Scotland, but knew exactly which tree Shari was eyeing up for the chop – small world, eh?  And, alas, the Rossi is no more.]

A Tale of Vanuatu Jungle and Sea

La Piste Bleue Finish Line, Port Vila Vanuatu

It was pitch black when my eyes cracked open in response to the annoying screech of the alarm.  Rob leapt out of bed and headed for the shower.  I rolled back over and tried to go to sleep, but my mind kept working trying to figure out the time.  It was dark.  The birds hadn’t begun their dawn chatter.  Rob was wide-awake.  The wondering and the shower made it impossible to get back to sleep, but the alternative - rolling over to turn the light on to see where the hands of the clock were - was simply not an option.  I’d have been wide-awake myself then and I knew that on a Saturday morning that was just not suppose to be.

Rob came out of the shower and got his running gear on in the dark.  I finally brought myself to a point of awareness where I could talk and made the gesture of offering to drive him to where he was going.  I was more than pleased to hear that he was being picked up.  I really couldn’t bear the thought of getting up and driving him to the starting line.  I asked what time it was.  He said he wasn’t sure, but had set the alarm for 4:30!

He finished dressing, said goodbye and headed off to the kitchen.  As the bedroom door closed I mumbled a half-hearted “good luck” and was back to sleep in no time.

I rose at the much more respectable hour of 9 o’clock.  It was a brilliant day.  The sun was shinning, but there were huge fluffy white clouds that covered the sun from time to time just enough to keep it from getting excruciatingly hot.  I thought that would be good for Rob and his team on their 25 km walk through the jungle.

Every year the local electricity and water company, UNELCO, sponsor La Piste Bleue.  For those not familiar with Vanuatu’s other official language, La Piste Bleue translates as The Blue Trail.  Blue and white are UNELCO’s colours and the trail is marked with blue markers so people can find their way.

Well, most people can find their way.  Every year until last year when the requirement of doing the trek in teams was introduced, at least one person got lost.  In 1998, about 5 people got lost – one for several days – so that put an end to the individual competition.

This year a record 534 people including 81 children – they had a shorter course, of course – started out on the jungle trek.  I say started out, because not everyone makes it.  There are several check points along the way that teams must check in at.  It makes it easier to decide where to send the search parties this way.  The checkpoints are manned by the military police and at some you have the option of dropping out. 

Anyway, at 7am sharp teams with names like Cinnamon Girls, Les 40%, the Bull Dogs and the International School Scorpions headed off into the jungle behind the UNELCO’s new generating plant. 

Climbing Jungle Paths

Rob had done La Piste Bleue last year and of course could not resist doing it again this year.  I met him at the finish line last year.  He and his team had finished at about 3 in the afternoon and were covered in mud and soaked through from the river crossings and sweat.   The stories of the adventure and the fantastic scenery were very enticing and I briefly entertained the idea of doing it this year, but the reality is it’s not me – too many mountains and hills.  Rob sees a mountain and he wants to climb it.  I see a mountain and I look for the easiest way around it.  I love to walk, but only where it’s flat.  Beaches are good.  So, needless to say, when it was suggested I join the team, I declined. 

So, while Rob and his team were climbing Mount Bernier that morning, I was pottering around the house.  I had said I would catch up with them at the finish line and when I got to the kitchen that morning, I found a note instructing me to bring the champagne in the fridge and three glasses.  The “three glasses” instruction irked me a bit considering it was a three person team and with the champagne carrier that made FOUR!

Anyway, Rob had suggested they would be finished by 1 o’clock, but since I was told the same last year and had to wait around for two hours for him to finish I decided 2:30 would be more reasonable.

I loaded the champagne and THREE glasses into the cooler and headed out to Hideaway Island.  Hideaway is a great little resort, a resort in a Vanuatu sense that is.  It is known for its diving and snorkelling.  The reef around part of the island is a designated marine reserve so it attracts all kinds of fish and sea life.  The coral is spectacular at least from this novice snorkeller’s point of view.  It has a few bungalows for overnight guest and a rustic little restaurant right on the beach, which makes a beautiful fish curry.

Hideaway Island,  Mele Bay, Vanuatu

The first time we went out there, I thought that had the producers of “Gillian’s Island” paid a bit more attention to detail, they would have filmed it here rather than on a soundstage.  Everything about the place just screams Gillian – the bungalows, the “wharf”, everything except I guess the people, the boat to the mainland, the bar and the restaurant.

It is a great little place to get away from it all, but not too far from town to mean I would fail at my job as champagne carrier. 

Hideaway Island Resort is run by this Kiwi bloke from Auckland, named Bruce. Bruce is quite a character, one of the many who make Port Vila so quirky. He is well tanned and about 40. Bruce came here 14 years ago after a stint in Bouganville. He is one of the many who tell you they came here for six months, a year or a weekend holiday and are still here 14, 20 or 30 years later.

He has blondish hair with one of those little short tail thingies at the back. I suspect the hair may be disappearing, but it is hard to tell since he is never seen without his baseball cap. He smokes rollies and is uncomfortable wearing anything but shorts, T-shirt and jandals (thongs, flip-flops or any of the other names you might call those little pads of rubber you attach to your feet by slipping the rubber strap over the front of your foot and between your big toe and whatever the next one along is called - your index toe?).

When we first got to Vanuatu you would often see Bruce in one of those long oil skin coats you see the Marlboro Man in. At the time, his jeep was without a roof and it got a bit wet when it rained.  Fortunately, a year and a half on he has finally got a canvass top on it.

The Snorkeling is great in Vanuatu.

Now, I know, this picture is not what you would picture as a wonderful host, but on the contrary Bruce has to be one of the best hosts in town.  He is always a step a head of you on what you need... beer, coffee, cake, snorkelling equipment.  He is very witty and never short of a tale of his own.

I’ll never forget our second or third trip out there.  We had some visitors in town and had gone out for the afternoon.  Bruce came over to our table on the beach, while we were having lunch, to have a chat. As he often does, he told us a story. I don't quite remember why this particular story, but it fit into the conversation at the time for some reason.

A couple of years ago a group of four older women, old friends from high school, were at Hideaway on some sort of reunion. Their husbands were off some where and they were going snorkelling. The water at Hideaway is very shallow for quite a ways out, maybe only a foot or two deep, and there is a lot of coral rubble you have to make your way through to get to the reef. Anyway, just as one woman was starting out into the deeper water she started flailing, splashing and screaming. Bruce said everyone ran down to the water thinking something was terribly wrong – shark, sea snake, jellyfish?  Next thing they knew she stood up in the shallow water, topless, "with her tits hanging down to her navel" as Bruce put it and she said "Oh, Thank God!!" and was fine.

It turned out that as she had pushed off, her top had got snagged in the coral rubble and come off.  As she got into the deeper water (3 or 4 feet), her breasts came up into her face.  Through the goggles, tough, which I am told magnify things by about 25%, she didn't quite recognise them and thought she was being attacked by some vicious sea creature.  Hence, the panic attack that drew everyone to her aid.

Anyway, as luck would have it the comedy routine got even better that particular day. A little while after lunch, Rob and the others had gone for a snorkel. I sat at the table reading my book, because the night before I had had a shark dream and decided not to risk it (no, it wasn't funny but it figures, right?).

Bruce saw I wasn't going in so, being the good host, he brought some coffee over for me and a lemon tea for himself and sat down for a chat. During this chat this very large nicely dressed older man with a thick German accent - Sgt. Schultz type - came over asking if Bruce had seen so and so. Bruce hadn't and the guy went off back toward the bungalows.  The guy was staying on the island.

Well a little time passed and back came Sgt. Schultz, but this time he was wearing nothing but a pair of speedos and carrying his snorkelling gear. Jesus, was that a sight to be seen. From the front, his stomach hung down so far that you couldn't tell he was wearing speedos, but it wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't because 'it' would have been well hidden by the one large roll. From the side, you could see a thin wisp of black speedo and from the back, well that was large and black. The rest, however, was white as white could be.

He waved hello and went down to the water to put the snorkelling gear on.  Most people wade in to where the water is about 2 feet deep, sit down and put the flippers on. Not this guy.  He sat down just at the water line in about 4 inches of water, 6 inches when a wave came in off a very calm Mele Bay.  He put the flippers on, adjusted his goggles and snorkel, moved slightly forward into the water, stretched his arms and legs out and started swimming.

I say swimming, but it was only the motions of swimming really. His flippers were still resting on dry land, his stomach, well you can imagine, in 4 to 6 inches of water was resting firmly on the sand and coral rubble bottom, his butt was in the air, but his head and arms were in the water he thought he was swimming.  It took a few seconds, but eventually he worked his way out into the deeper water and was off.

It was one of those Kodak moments. Bruce and I sat there watching this spectacle and you could see both of our minds heading rapidly down the same track. We looked at each other, both about to speak, but Bruce, as he does, got there first.

"Thank Christ Greenpeace weren't here! They'd have been down there trying to push the poor bastard out to sea," he said with the smoke from his last drag on the rollie escaping from his mouth with those words.

Unfortunately, Bruce was nowhere to be found on the day of La Piste Bleue.  So, I had to look elsewhere for entertainment.  I had a drink, had a bite to eat, read a bit of my book and just before two made my way back to ferry.  It was a nice day and it sure as hell beat dragging my butt up mountains, over rivers, through the mud and back to civilisation.

There were cars all along the road outside the entrance to the UNELCO plant when I got there.  Half of the road was blocked off and teams, muddied and wet, were powering home to cross the finish line.  I drove up to the airport to turn around and then parked the car under a tree along the road.

I walked into the grounds looking around to see if I could see Rob and the team.  I hadn’t really expected them to be there.  I was walking the same path as the trekkers and as I neared the finish line a guilty flash of embarrassment shot through me as a group of spectators started cheering.  I mean, why me?  I wasn’t muddy.  I wasn’t soaked with sweat.  How could they possibly think I’d managed to finish La Piste Bleue looking like that.

I sheepishly looked over in the direction of the cheers and realised they weren’t cheers at all they were just calling me over to where the team had plopped down after finishing.  Rob was propped up against the chain link fence drinking a Coca-Cola.

I sat down in the crowd as this was a crowd that was not standing and got the run down.  It was not as hard as last year’s.  There was no climbing up waterfalls and no river crossing this year.  Climbing Mount Bernier was the most gruelling part, but the twist, and there is always one, was the climbing a ravine using ropes to make your way from rock to rock.

La Piste Bleue Gathering

I heard who passed whom.  Who drove whom up a wall along the way.  Some people are quite full of themselves and strut there way along putting others down.  The first man to cross the finish had done the whole trek without shoes.  This meant I knew the winner was a ni-Vanuatu because as I looked around the group New Zealanders, French and Australians around me all rubbing their feet freshly removed from their shoes, there was no way any of them could have done it without shoes.

After a good 15 or 20 minutes, I mentioned that I had remembered to bring the champagne and asked if I should go get it.  A load chorus of “Yes” ensued.  Apparently, the only thing that kept Vickie, one of Rob’s team members, going was the promise of champagne at the finish.   So, I went back to the car and carried the cooler and THREE glasses over.  Considering there were a lot more than three people around that was a bit awkward, but we made do.

Maybe next year, I will walk La Piste Bleue, then again… 

[Note: During the decade that has past since this tale was first told, I have never done La Piste Bleue]

Copyright 2001

Just Let The Kava Sing

My first experience was memorable.  Rob and I were invited by another couple to share in some of Vanuatu’s best.  We’d never done this before, but we trusted the intuition of these new found friends and decided to give it a go.

We drove down the hill and met them just behind Wilco Hardware and then followed them up the hill on the other side.  We had been in Vanuatu a couple of weeks and we weren’t quite sure where we were headed.  We ploughed through potholes, the size of bomb craters.  It was before the Toyota Prado.  The low clearance of the car we were driving meant it grounded a few times on the deep ruts caused by Vila downpours cutting into the steep coral surfaced roads.

We turned a corner and our friends parked along side a tall hedge.  It was a beautiful night.  The only light apart from that coming from the billions of stars above was from a single naked red light bulb on a pole sticking out from a tree just opposite us.  We followed our friends across the road, through the gate and down the path towards the glow of the dim light coming from the window of a small traditional hut just ahead of us.

With the light bulb now on the other side of the hedge and the tree canopy blocking out the sky, we were enveloped in darkness.  As we walked along the path I became aware that we were not alone.  You couldn’t see them, but you knew they were there… in the darkness – silent, but definitely there. 

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the garden was arranged in a way that formed these little alcoves all along the path.  There were people in them, but it was only the occasional shuffle or mumble that gave them away.

We carried on toward the hut.  Just before we entered, though, a horrendous noise erupted from the bush behind us.  It was the deep guttural sound of a man preparing to hoick.  Then he spat, followed by a few “peh, peh” as he tried to get out the last of whatever the terrible thing was that he had in his mouth.

This gave me no confidence that I would be able to go through with it.  Let’s face it this was not my scene.  We entered the door.  There was a woman behind the bar, but no one else inside.  We took a table.  We chatted the typical small talk of those who had just met and then it was time.

Thomas asked if I wanted a 50 vatu or a 100 vatu.  I chose the cheaper since I still wasn’t sure I wanted to do this.  Rob, being Rob, jumped in boots and all and ordered a 100 vatu.  We went up to the bar.  The woman ladled the appropriate amount into the glass bowls and we headed out the back door into the darkness.

The liquid ladled into the bowls looked like it had just come from one of the many potholes we had passed through on the way.  It was a greenish muddy brown and certainly didn’t look like something you would want to drink, unless of course, you were into drinking from sewers.

Out back and facing a chest high hedge, our hosts explained it was the custom here to drink it all in one go.  So, I tilted the bowl back and immediately thought, “What the hell am I doing?  Am I completely mad?”  The taste was foul and what was worse was that I couldn’t take it all in one gulp.  I had to gulp two, three, four times and with each gulp another wave of that taste went over my tongue.  And, I had the half size!

I now knew exactly why the guy behind the bush was hoicking.  There is no way to describe the taste of kava.  Some people say earthy.  Others say it tastes like mud, but then can you really trust the opinion of someone who has recently been eating mud? No, the taste is indescribable really.

Although the mud analogy is not a surprising one considering the kava here is green kava, that is straight from the ground.  Kava is found through out the Pacific, but generally it is dried and later mixed with water something like a tea.  In Vanuatu, the fresh roots are ground up – in places like Tanna that grinding was traditionally done by chewing and spitting, but we won’t go there – then placed in a piece of material and squeezed into a bucket of water.  The resulting liquid muck is sold in half coconut shells in measures of a full shell or half shell.

All everyone can really agree upon is that it is not a good taste.  So, one might ask why is the national drink of Vanuatu such a foul tasting concoction?  Well, it is not for the taste.  It is for what follows after you manage to keep it down.

Kava produces a mild high.  By the time we got back to the table to gobble up the peanuts that were there to kill the taste, my lips and tongue were going numb already.  The world kind of slows down with kava.  You mellow and life just happens around you as you sit in your own headspace.  It’s not alcoholic.  So, you don’t get a hangover the next day, although it makes some people like me very groggy in the morning.

For ni-Vanuatu kava is a tradition.  It played and still plays a big part in custom ceremonies and its traditional uses are as varied as the 100 language groups that make up the country.  In most localities kava was for men only and even today in the outer islands its use by women is frowned upon.

Following independence in 1980, kava came out of the solely traditional role and entered the popular culture.  Kava bars, like the one we went to for our first kava experience opened up and today there are well over 100 kava bars or nakamals just in Vila.  Kava has replaced alcohol as the drug of choice in Vanuatu and since it mellows you out rather than hypes you up like alcohol can, street violence on a Friday night has really dropped off over the past 20 years.  Of course, I wasn’t here then so that is second hand, but I feel a lot safer walking the streets of Vila on a Friday night than I do the streets of Wellington or Auckland.

For the typical expat kava drinker, kava is viewed more or less as legalised marijuana.  Don’t get me wrong, the ni-Vanuatu treat it as a social drug as well, but with a long tradition of use it’s nothing new, it’s just there.  Expats treat it like a drug.  This is probably best illustrated by the lingo.  In Bislama, ni-Vanuatu will say some one is “drong long kava” or drunk on kava, where expats are likely use the word “high”.  Where we say, “Did you get a hit yet”, ni-Vanuatu will asks, “yu harem kava”.  “Harem” means feel or hear, which leads to some asking, “If you can hear the kava singing”.  The expat kava culture has also added the word, “kavahead”.

Probably the best example of the expat drug culture approach is to go into one of the stores that sells dried kava on a day when the cruise ship is in town.  The yabbos that arrive here from Western Sydney and Queensland head straight to these stores.  They pick up the tourist packages of dried kava in little decorative baskets and ask the nearest staff member if “this is good stuff”.  Wanting to make a sale, the staff member says, “Yes, of course.”  The tourist makes the purchase, looks around for the coppers and discretely slips the little pink or blue basket into his bag.  You can just see him going back to his cabin with his mates, locking the door behind them and then trying to smoke the stuff.

For ni-Vanuatu, kava is just something to do with the boys on a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, … night.  That is the pub scene I’m talking about, its not the kind of thing you’d do sitting in front of the telly watching a rugby match.  Although, thinking about it, it might not be a bad idea.  For those of us that don’t see the point of getting all excited about little people running back and forth across the TV screen, life would be a lot quieter if the couch potato fans were zonked on kava.

Speaking of zonked, kava can zonk you big time.  Generally, one or two shells will get the kava singing to you and smart people stop there.  Experienced drinkers can go on to three or four shells. 

The place is full of stories of over zealous expats on kava.  One friend of ours loves to tell the story of her first experience.  Since I don’t have a Haitian-Miami accent I can’t really do the story justice, but she tells how she went to her first kava bar.  She is one of the few people who say they liked the taste, Rob is another.  So, she had her first shell and loved it.  She said, “Whao, this is great.  Give me another.”  She had another and then another.  Her story usually stops with four shells, but her husband says it was more like six.  Completely legless she was taken home and put to bed and there she stayed for four or five days.  She was so sick she could not get up and she hasn’t had another shell since.

Fortunately, Rob and I are a bit more moderate in our kava drinking.   We go to kava probably only once a month and it is much more for the social setting than for the “hit” or to hear the “singing”.  It is a very social event.  Kava is taken in the evening and loud music and bright light are definite no-noes, so you have your kava and then sit down and have a chat with whomever. 

When we first arrived we tried a few different kava bars, like Mickey’s, Ronnie’s, and The Northern Light.  All have different atmospheres and different types of kava.  Depending on the island it comes from and how it is made, kava can have different strengths.  In my experience Maewo kava is the strongest, but ask any ni-Vanuatu which is best and he or she will tell you it is the kava from their island.

Over the past two years though, we have settled on two particular kava bars, Bob’s and Friday night kava at the University of the South Pacific (USP) Campus.   Bob’s is on the lagoon and you have your kava over at the bushes, rinse your mouth out and then sit on the deck over the lagoon.  The sun sets behind the hills on the other side  and it is a fabulous setting for the end of the day.  The sky glows in oranges, yellows, pinks and purples as the palm trees turn to shadows.  It is a great place to take visitors

USP has a different ambience.  It is an end of the week work thing, but friends of employees and students, like us, are welcome too.  We go there largely to catch up with a few friends who are pure kavaheads.

I can’t say I’ve ever really gotten into the stuff, but that will save me from the kidney stones, dry skin and slow mornings associated with the heavy kava drinkers.  It’s a great social event, though, so we will keep going occasionally. 

Hey.  Yeah man, how’s it goin’…  Yeah, I hear it singin’ tooooo….

[Note:  This tale was first told in early 2001.]

Copyright 2001